


Our Brother's Honor

by ProwlingThunder



Series: Cloaks and Daggers [19]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Bleeding Effect, Brotherhood, Canon History, Clay Bleeds Malik, Des Bleeds Altair, Gen, Italian Assassins, Modern AU, freerunning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-01-21
Packaged: 2018-03-08 10:48:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3206453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProwlingThunder/pseuds/ProwlingThunder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt!Fill.</p><p>Brothers look out for one another, no matter what.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Brother's Honor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ZpanSven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZpanSven/gifts).



It was always strange to watch Desmond and Clay when they Bled, the personalities of long-dead people slipping through. Usually Desmond channeled an Old Mentor, Al Mualim Altair Ibn-La'Ahad, who had led the Levant Order until his death; Altair's own many-times great-grandfather, and his namesake. Clay channeled another; Ezio Auditore de Firenze, Mentore de Italia. Who, of course, had a much more colorful bloodline with every Italian Assassin Altair had run into yet.

Sometimes there were others, and when that happened Master Rahman's frown would pinch just a bit deeper for reasons Altair could not discern, but usually it was those two, unless Clay was channeling Al Mualim Malik al-Sayf, one of the interim leaders, according to history, who had taken the famous Altair's power while he was away on a ten-year mission. He hadn't held it long, according to the history books, though whether it had been a mercy killing to save him from the Plague spreading at the time, or if it had been a true assassination-- or even an Assassination-- wasn't very clear.

What was clear was that the oldest Altair had ever seen Desmond Bleed his ancestor through was late twenties, maybe, early thirties at best, always moving with a certain spring in his step and he'd seen Clay channel an old man more times than he could count, joints stiff with remembered wounds and arthritis in the joints his brain still claimed he had.

He'd seen them chase Italian Assassins of all ages and ranks across the rooftops of Monteriggioni, flinging themselves heedlessly from tile or wooden beams or hanging lamps. Sometimes even when they were not Bleeding; before his stint in the tender care of Templars, Clay had been an Assassin himself, and Desmond was just someone who loved to free-run. The exercise was doing them good, but everyone in Monteriggioni watched them when they ran, for the risk that they would slip and Bleed mid-run.

It had happened already, to Clay, throwing himself up a wall to climb. Then he had no longer been Clay-- and his left arm had no longer worked.

The Creed kept everyone looking out for their brothers.


End file.
